


Under the Apple Tree

by NotASpaceAlien



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Arrangement, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 00:32:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17355587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotASpaceAlien/pseuds/NotASpaceAlien
Summary: Crowley finds himself in a tight spot, and Aziraphale dares to hope his help could turn into something more.





	Under the Apple Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thekeyholder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekeyholder/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Under the Apple Tree](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19985590) by [Sphinx28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sphinx28/pseuds/Sphinx28)



> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/181854302035/hi-everyone-i-am-here-to-post-the-fic-i-wrote-for  
> On Dreamwidth at https://go-exchange.dreamwidth.org/222769.html

Damn. One simple mission. That’s all it had been: go in, tempt a priest to adultery, and get out in time for drinks. Easy as can be. And it had turned into this.

“We know you’re still in there, hellspawn,” said the angel at the head of the group menacing him from outside. Over the sound of a sword scraping ominously against the side of the barn, the voice continued, “You can’t stay in there forever.”

Crowley hunkered down in the barn, trying to fade into the hay beneath him. A nearby goat nibbled at his hair.

A huge angel, wings spread wide, blocked the open stable door. The horses had run out at the first sign of trouble, and those front doors were the only exit besides the small second-story window behind Crowley. The occasional glimpses he caught of white feathers flashing across that porthole told him he would fare no better that way.

The angel who had been shouting at him crossed in front of the entrance again, sword slung casually over his shoulder. “Tell you what,” he boomed. “We’re in the mood for a chase. A bit of a hunt. How about we give you a head start? It’ll be more fun that way.”

Crowley looked at the goat that had been chewing on him, as if it might have advice to offer.

“A ten-second head start?”

“Bet he’ll stay away from that priest after this,” said a second angel, their voice low and amused. “He’s scared shitless.”

“You would be, too, if you’d run into us,” said another voice, nonetheless equally entertained.

There had to be at least six of them, judging by the voices. Wing-beats sounded behind Crowley again.

Somebody, what to do? They had him surrounded, so it seemed unlikely he’d get away if their “ten-second head start” turned out to be a trick to get him to come out. Not that there seemed much alternative.

“Ten seconds,” the leader repeated, stepping away from the barn. “Scout’s honour. Go ahead.”

Crowley manifested his wings, crawling forward to peer at the exit again. No angels were visible. _Should I make a break for it?_

“One…”

Crowley whipped his head back and forth between the two exits, trying to judge which would offer him a better start to his escape.

“Two...”

Shoving the goat aside, Crowley sprung up onto the second story and launched himself out the window, snapping his wings open and rocketing away as fast as he could.

“Look at him go!” someone jeered.

“Three…”

“Don’t go till ten,” chastised another angel.

Crowley didn’t look back to see whether or not they were following. He pumped his wings frantically, trying to put as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible.

He was out of earshot after _five,_ but _oh_ did he count six through ten in his head. Only then did he risk a look back, to see the flock of angels take to the air right on cue. Seven pairs of ethereal wings flashed in the sky behind him, accompanied by the gleam of blades.

The city beneath him was a blur of thatched roofs and grey stones as he fled, hell-bent on escaping what was sure to be a painful discorporation. He rather liked this body. He liked Earth much better than Hell despite the presence of roving gangs of angels, and he would rather stay here. It was always an ordeal to get a new body.

He hated it, but that was the state of affairs, and running was the smartest thing to do failing any option that resulted in angels deciding they _didn’t_ have to be out for his blood on sight.

Crowley dove beneath the rooftops, hoping that getting out of the angels’ line of sight would give him more leeway. He shrouded himself with a miracle to avert notice from humans below; it divided his attention and slowed him down a little, but it was a calculated risk.

Crowley’s wingtips brushed the thatching on either side, nimble and quick, threading the needle through obstacles as he darted down alleyways and under the eaves of buildings. He pressed himself into the underside of a gutter as a figure in white robes darted overhead.

Crowley crawled up onto the roof and took stock of where the angels were. They appeared to have fanned out, their pace slowed to a predatory search a few blocks down.

He leapt quietly back into the air, weaving between streets and keeping his head down. With a little luck, he might actually get out of here in one piece.

He’d probably leave the continent after that. Nothing like a little distance to make everything all right.

The way ahead looked clear. Crowley picked up his pace, torn between trying to stay as quiet as possible and flapping wildly to get away quickly. He settled on a brisk glide, weaving between buildings, sticking close and occasionally brushing against the façades.

After vaulting over another alleyway he realised, horrified, where he was. The brickwork of a church’s bell tower loomed in his peripheral vision.

He’d found out that being inside a church was a disagreeable experience as once he’d tried to confirm that, yes, his suspicions were correct about holy ground burning him. He had yet to discover what effects holy water would have on demons, and he had no desire to test that out. The evidence he’d accumulated so far had led him to believe things of God—churches, blessed objects and the like—usually did a number of unpleasant things to him.

He’d never seen a church bell in action on a demon, but he guessed he was about to find out. One of the pursuing angels had crouched in the tower with a devious smile on her face, and Crowley was almost close enough to reach out and touch the bell.

The bell rang. Crowley clapped his hands over his ears, but it didn’t help. The great bronze bell was so close he could feel its reverberation down to his bones, the air vibrating with holy energy. His palms went slick with what must have been blood.

Crowley tried to stay in the air. He really tried, but the bell swung back around for a second booming, thunderous _gong,_ and the sound grated against the very fibre of Crowley’s being, his demonic core that reacted explosively to anything of God.

Crowley tumbled head over heels, wings flailing, and cracked his head on the brickwork lining the alley into which he’d fallen. The roaring in his ears was deafening; he couldn’t hear the bell’s third peal, but he sure fucking _felt_ it.

He slammed into the ground, still clutching his ears. The roar died down into a subdued, high-pitched ringing as the bell mercifully fell still, but the ache and tightness it had smashed into his chest was still there, making it hard to breathe. Crowley staggered to his feet, one hand on the wall, the other clapped onto the side of his head, blood leaking through his fingers. He hobbled forward, still intent on escape.

He distantly heard the angels laughing and jeering over the persistent dull roar, and tried to tear his dazed gaze from the ground. He only succeeded in tripping.

He caught himself, kneeling on the ground, and a pair of sandaled feet came into view. Fearfully, he let his eyes drift up.

The angel who’d rung the bell looked mighty proud of herself. “A valiant effort,” she said, unsheathing her sword. “But I think you’ve exhausted your entertainment value as prey.”

* * *

Aziraphale should have known better than to trust that infuriating demon.

He and Crowley had been fairly cordial with each other since their first meeting. Aziraphale always felt vaguely guilty about that, but he’d never seen the harm in it. A human generation or two and a bit of civilisation later, they had ended up drinking in the same bar on the same evening as one of the crossings of their paths.

They had pushed their tables together and discovered they could manage to have quite a good time in each other’s company. Which seemed unfitting for an angel and a demon, but there it was.

Crowley had contacted him after that to suggest that they meet again, this time on purpose. Aziraphale hadn’t seen the harm in accepting, in that same way he always refused to see the harm in things he wanted to do. From the sound of the letter, it seemed that Crowley wanted to talk about something.

Well, it must not have been anything very important, because Aziraphale had been waiting for three hours past their meeting time. About two hours in, he’d given up on self-restraint and started ordering small, guilty, “I’m-still-waiting-for-you-but-I-also-want-to-drink” drinks, which had gradually turned into “I-got-stood-up-didn’t-I” denial drinks. He finally gave in and grudgingly admitted Crowley was not coming, decided he’d waited long enough, and ordered a final pint before leaving.

Had Crowley’s invitation been a ruse? That demon was certainly crafty, but Aziraphale hadn’t thought he would abuse what trust had developed between them for the sake of distracting Aziraphale for a few hours…would he?

The thought depressed Aziraphale to an alarming degree. He pushed down the realisation that he was lonely, squashing it under another impressive helping of denial. Gabriel was in town, after all; there were more angels here than ever thanks to Gabriel’s armed escort mucking about.

They didn’t really _get_ him, though.

Aziraphale had the nagging suspicion that something had prevented Crowley from making their rendezvous. Still, he couldn’t drag his mind out of the rut that he was an idiot for trusting anyone, that his demonic nemesis* had duped him, and he really ought to get on with being alone for the rest of his life.

[*Aziraphale refused to use the word _companion_ just yet, but he was working up to it.]

Aziraphale ambled out of the bar, head buzzing slightly and hands in his pockets. Now what?

He’d heard a church bell tolling not that long ago and had wondered what it’d been for. Three chimes wasn’t the norm for Compline, and it wasn’t any saint’s day or other liturgical festival he could think of. He might as well investigate. And while he was there, he could visit with the priest there who always had some delicious fig cakes lying about… Heaven knew he didn’t have anything better to do.

Aziraphale thought about flying to save time, but that would require a level of purposeful movement for which he could not muster up the motivation. Aimless walking seemed more befitting his restlessness and ill temper.

Besides, it was a nice night for a walk. Street-lamps hadn’t been invented yet, so his lonely journey was guided by the cold, beautiful light of the stars as they started to twinkle on one by one.

Aziraphale meandered down the street, his breath making small clouds before him, taking note when he passed a lit doorway through which he could see patrons of a bar or families content at dinner, laughing in the warmth and having a good time. He swiftly averted his eyes from such displays of happiness.

It was fully dark by the time he arrived at the church. It hardly seemed likely he would find anyone at this hour to ask why the bell had sounded, but he’d been looking for the flimsiest excuse to go for a walk so it hardly mattered. He rubbed his hands together and gazed up at the tower, the bell’s brass bulk looming like a gargoyle in the darkness.

Aziraphale caught the coppery scent of blood and prickled with alarm. He glanced down and saw a glistening trail, which shone a washed-out, glossy black in the dimness of the alley. He squatted to examine it and noted it looked relatively fresh.

“Hello?” he called. “Is anyone there?”

He jogged towards the church, peering around to try to find the source of the blood. “Where are you?”

Aziraphale’s neck prickled again as he sensed an otherworldly aura nearby. Demonic, from the feel of it.

Had that demon done something dreadful? Aziraphale’s blood boiled to imagine that Crowley would have the gall to dupe him so he could go off to do…. _this._

Aziraphale materialised a dagger. “What have you done?” he whispered. “Show yourself.”

He knew how to use edged weapons, of course, but he strongly preferred keeping them out of his work. Nevertheless, keeping a dagger on hand was prudent. He was a lot of things, but a fool wasn’t one of them.

He stepped forwards gingerly to avoid staining his sandals with the blood splattered all over the ground. A ghastly wheeze to one side drew his attention, and Aziraphale saw who’d made it:

Crowley was crumpled on the ground, bracing himself against the wall, his head hanging. It was immediately obvious to Aziraphale the blood was _his,_ not that of a victim. He looked like he’d gotten the business end of a sword between the ribs. The presence of some stray nicks here and there on his arms and face told Aziraphale he had at least put up a fight.

At first, Aziraphale thought he’d stumbled upon Crowley’s corpse, but the laboured breaths powering the wheezing told him otherwise. He suddenly understood the off-hand comment Crowley had once made about angels smiting harder than strictly necessary. He’d always thought it was an exaggeration to garner pity.

Aziraphale _did_ feel sorry for him now, which he didn’t want to admit. Surely if Gabriel’s cohort had been after an execution, a quick throat-slitting would have been sufficient. But they had left him to die slowly, and by a church of all places. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what effect being so close to holy ground would have on an injured demon, but judging by the trail of blood, Crowley had made some attempt to drag himself away from it before giving up and falling into his current position.

Aziraphale was torn on what to do. The angelic, and probably merciful, thing to do would be to put Crowley out of his misery. It wouldn’t be so bad; Hell would just give him another body. Wouldn’t that be preferable to bleeding out here in the street? Those of angelic stock were made of sterner stuff than humans, so he wouldn’t die right away.

But he definitely _was_ going to die. It looked like Crowley had made an attempt to heal himself, but in his weakened state had clearly not been able to draw up enough power to do the job. Healing was a skillset not many angels actually had in their repertoire, and doing it on yourself was especially difficult.

That left only the option to kill him quickly, right?

Aziraphale cleared his throat. Crowley didn’t respond; his eyes were squeezed shut.

“Well, this is quite a situation you’ve gotten yourself into, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, lowering the knife.

Crowley started and looked up at Aziraphale foggily. “Huh?”

“Ah, I said, quite a situation you’ve gotten yourself into?”

Crowley reached up and stuck his pinky finger into his ear, twisting it. It was at this point Aziraphale noted the dried blood caked on the side of his face, trailing down from his ear. “Ssssorry, hard to hear you over the ringing.”

Aziraphale looked doubtfully up at the bell tower, then back down at him. Crowley’s serpentine tongue flicked out as he took his next laboured breath. “Sssuppose you’re here to finish me off?”

Aziraphale again raised his knife. Crowley spewed some blood with a raspy cough. _He probably has a punctured lung,_ Aziraphale thought. “Go on, then,” Crowley grunted.

Aziraphale didn’t respond, so Crowley closed his eyes again and titled his head back, baring his throat for the death blow. Aziraphale grimaced, weighing the dagger in his hand. Merciful or not, he hated the idea of using it on someone who had never done him any harm.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s face tightened in despair when no blow came, and he realised Crowley shared the thought of a quick death being the best option. The demon’s eyes fluttered open again, resting on Aziraphale.

“Gabriel’s guard detail did this to you?” Aziraphale asked.

“If you’re not going to help me, then get out of here,” Crowley snapped, chest heaving in palpable discomfort. He writhed for a moment, then finished, “I’m very busy dying.”

Aziraphale squatted down next to Crowley. The shift in position resulted in a sense of intimacy that Aziraphale instantly regretted. “What was it you wanted to talk about over drinks?”

Crowley let out a strangled laugh. He’d recently been given a very stern and painful reminder of what his relationship with angels was supposed to be like, and he’d discarded the plan he’d been about to present to Aziraphale. “Forget about it.”

Trapped by his mounting guilt and indecision, Aziraphale didn’t budge.

“Hey,” said Crowley, his voice thick. “Why does it have to be like this, you know? I mean, why like this? You always seemed a decent enough guy…”

Aziraphale waited for some confirmation that Crowley was mocking him, but none came.

Aziraphale looked at the knife in his hand again. Crowley succumbed to another wet coughing fit.

Aziraphale really didn’t want to kill him. The idea was tremendously distasteful. Had he come to…like this demon? Maybe he could sort those feelings out later.

But was the alternative to just leave him…? “I ought to at least move you somewhere more comfortable,” said Aziraphale. It was only charitable. He could make up some lie if another angel caught him moving Crowley around.  He hauled Crowley up.   
  
“No,” Crowley groaned.  “Come on…”

Aziraphale slung Crowley’s arm over his shoulder, putting his other arm around Crowley’s midsection to steady him. He was so sluggish that Aziraphale practically had to drag him.

“Where are we going?” Crowley asked miserably. “Just let me die already.”

“I’m just moving you away from the church,” said Aziraphale.

Aziraphale checked the sky to make sure it was free of any watchful eyes. He hauled Crowley into the street, using a small miracle to deter human passersby from noticing them.

Aziraphale soon found himself with another quandary, however: where to put the demon down. Surely now they were far enough away from the church that Crowley wouldn’t be affected by the holy ground, but if he just left him out here in the open, he might again catch the attention of Gabriel’s escort, and human passersby couldn’t help him.

Crowley’s head lolled onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he coughed a vivid stain onto Aziraphale’s tunic.

After taking a series of increasingly uncertain turns, Aziraphale eventually dragged Crowley all the way out of town. He didn’t stop until they came to a grassy hill leading up to a rocky outcropping not far from the ocean. There was a small grove of trees cresting it, including what appeared to be an apple tree.

It seemed appropriate. No one would find him here, away from the city and the holy symbols that had hurt him in the first place. And it was surrounded by pleasant trees and the salt-stung air.

There were worse places to die. Aziraphale still couldn’t shake a lingering sense of guilt, as though _he_ should be responsible for the demon’s survival somehow.

He spotted a drop-off under the trees that was slightly sheltered, tree roots sticking out from the dirt. Aziraphale lay Crowley out under it and was shocked to see he was crying. He had thought demons couldn’t, or simply didn’t.

“I don’t want to die, angel,” Crowley managed.

_Now he’s just trying to earn pity,_ Aziraphale thought. Of course none of them wanted to die, but it happened sometimes. You dealt with it. You got another body and came back.

Aziraphale got to his feet and turned to leave.

“Are you ever afraid to go back?” Crowley said weakly to Aziraphale’s back. “To Heaven, I mean. When you die.”

Aziraphale started to walk, ashamed. He couldn’t face Crowley or his question, not like this.

* * *

Consumed with guilt, Aziraphale returned within the hour.

He’d left Crowley on the cold ground. It was chilly, and the point had been to make him _more_ comfortable, not leave him to freeze. That made him no better than Gabriel’s guards.

It was hard to see Crowley in the dark—he blended in so well—but Aziraphale found him eventually. He was exactly where Aziraphale had left him, but he’d curled up and tucked himself against the wall.

“Are you cold?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley, his nose buried in the dirt, adamantly said nothing.

Aziraphale built a fire, waiting for Crowley to turn around in his own time. He struck rocks to try and make a spark, but ended up cheating with a miracle out of sheer frustration. He figured it was all right since he _had_ gathered the kindling and done everything else by hand.

Crowley turned over when he felt the heat on his back, and then wordlessly scooted closer.

“Sorry, dear boy,” said Aziraphale. “I forgot how cold it can get out here.”

Crowley said nothing. Aziraphale only realised he’d used the affectionate term after it’d slipped out of his mouth, and he wondered where it could’ve come from. He struggled to think of some way to retract it, second-guessing himself.

Crowley ignored him. Maybe he hadn’t even heard it. He was staring into the fire.

Aziraphale hugged his knees to his chest, feeling chilled himself. Now would be the time to leave, but he hovered for reasons he refused to articulate.

He looked over at Crowley, the flames dancing in his bestial eyes. “Did you…” Aziraphale paused, realisation dawning on him. “Earlier, did you ask me if I—are you afraid of going back to Hell?”

Crowley’s laboured breathing was audible even over the crackling of the fire. He sat still for a few moments before nodding almost imperceptibly.

Crowley’s dread at the thought of being discorporated suddenly made sense to Aziraphale. He’d just assumed Crowley was throwing a fit at having to go through the physical pain of dying.

“Why would you be afraid of that?” said Aziraphale. “You’re a _demon.”_

Crowley didn’t respond.

“Are you having trouble hearing me again?”

Once again, Crowley remained silent.

Aziraphale reached over to shake him and make sure he was still alive, and Crowley let out a pained hiss.

“Watch it,” he snapped, and spat blood. Talking seemed to be extremely difficult for him. Aziraphale thought his lungs had probably filled with blood.

The angel retracted his hand. “Apologies.”

Crowley rolled over, gasping like a fish out of water.

“I could heal you, you know,” said Aziraphale, shocked by how easily the suggestion presented itself. It seemed so perfectly natural that it took him a moment to remember they were supposed to be enemies and therefore _not_ help each other.

“But you’re not going to,” Crowley grunted, baring his teeth in a strained sneer.

_He thinks I’m mocking him,_ Aziraphale realised. _Or gloating._ “No, I mean…I used to be a cherub. Healing is one of their skillsets. I still have it, although I haven’t used it in a while…”

Crowley pulled an angry face, coiling more tightly about himself. “Oh, piss off.”

Aziraphale _was_ aware of how ludicrous the suggestion was. He wasn’t _supposed_ to heal demons. He wasn’t even sure if an angel’s healing powers would _work_ on a demon, or if it would burn like holy water…or church bells.

On top of that, healing required bridging the auras of the healer and the patient in such a way that the injured angel was extremely vulnerable, baring their innermost and most sensitive spiritual energy. Usually it wasn’t a problem, because of course an angel would _trust_ another angel trying to heal them, but a demon…

Aziraphale could do permanent damage to Crowley if he wasn’t careful. Or if he were inclined to do so, which he wasn’t, but Crowley would probably take some convincing on that front. He had no reason to trust any angel, even one he had tried to meet for drinks, after being reminded so violently that angels, generally, have it out for him. The idea that a demon might trust an angel enough to expose himself in such a way was almost as absurd as…

…As the idea that angel would want to heal a demon in the first place.

Aziraphale mentally distanced himself from the situation and questioned his own motives. His _Make Crowley more comfortable while he dies_ had slowly morphed into _Make Crowley more comfortable,_ which was gradually becoming a question of why he had to die at all.

_I mean, he’s just going to get a new body and come up again_ , thought Aziraphale. _It’s not like killing our kind really does anything. So neither does saving a life, really. What’s the harm?_

_Our kind._ Well, that was an uncomfortable insight, wasn’t it? Aziraphale pushed the pesky thought aside. He wrung his hands. “I mean it. I can heal you, if you like.”

Crowley rolled over and squinted at Aziraphale. “You must think I’m stupid,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“So you’ll trust me with your death, but not with your life?”

Crowley put his head back down and muttered.

Cautiously, Aziraphale reached out with his aura, extending it to where Crowley’s began. Crowley visibly stiffened, and Aziraphale felt iron-clad walls slam shut around the demon’s aura, defences at the absolute maximum.

Aziraphale withdrew immediately. He was disappointed, but not entirely surprised, that Crowley had closed himself off after what he’d just gone through. They had always been fairly cordial with each other, and Aziraphale had hoped perhaps they could keep it up.

But just because Aziraphale had strange and illogical feelings of fondness for his adversary didn’t mean they would be reciprocated. He’d been foolish to think otherwise.

“All right,” muttered Aziraphale, heaving himself up and dusting his tunic off. “Have it your way, then.”

* * *

Aziraphale came back _again._ This time, he brought two tankards of beer.

Crowley barely noticed his presence. His body felt like it was on fire,**and his lungs were filling with fluid faster than he could cough it out.

[**He knew what this felt like from experience.]

Why that pesky angel hadn’t just killed him was a mystery. He either had some severely misguided heavenly compassion, or he was toying with Crowley in a way neither of them had ever done to each other before. Revenge for being stood up? _How petty._

Still, part of Crowley clung to every scrap of pain, knowing it was what was keeping him from Hell. As soon as it stopped, as soon as he died, he would end up back there.

Crowley’s eyes flew open as he felt a hand gently tilting his chin up. Aziraphale’s concerned face was a foot away from his own.

“You’re dying now, aren’t you?” the angel said.

Crowley’s eyes drifted down to the two pints the angel had brought. Optimistic of Aziraphale to think Crowley would be able to drink his, but the gesture didn’t go unnoticed. Misguided compassion it was, then.

Crowley coughed again, struggling to talk past the blood in his throat, wondering how many sentences he had left to get out. He looked up at the moonlit sky, stars visible through the branches of the apple tree above them. It was so utterly quiet and utterly beautiful…Crowley was glad he was here and not burning in an alley near a church.   
  
“Not a bad…spot…you picked out for it…angel,” he said, chest heaving. “Thanks…”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s soft, plump fingers brush his cheek. He didn’t have the energy left to express his surprise at being shown such tenderness.

“I think I can heal you,” Aziraphale said. “Won’t you at least let me try?”

Crowley shuddered and pulled up what remained of his energy to fortify his aura’s defence.

He trembled as he felt Aziraphale’s aura brushing against his own once more. The only time he’d felt anything like this was when he’d been smitten by other angels, but that was markedly less pleasant. Still, he redoubled his efforts to keep Aziraphale at bay; the sensory memory of being so close to angelic power overwhelmed him with panic. The exertion racked him with wretched, moist coughs.

Their connection vibrated with a gentle thought from Aziraphale. _Please let me heal you. You’re scared of Hell. You needn’t face it._

Crowley screwed his face in concentration.  He was so, _so_ tempted by those words, but the sneering and laughing faces of the angels playing deadly games with their swords was still so close in his mind. He kept the wall up to preserve his privacy even as his body began to fail, darkness creeping into the edges of his vision. He felt his heart slowing.

Aziraphale lowered his own defences, baring himself, and a cascade of emotions burst through their shared mental channel, giving Crowley a look at Aziraphale’s thoughts. Pity, and the helplessness of someone who can prevent needless suffering but was not being allowed to for reasons he considered foolish.

Crowley pushed back on the channel with his own thoughts: a collage of images, all the horrible things an angel could do if permitted access to Crowley’s deepest, most vulnerable areas. Aziraphale could sever him from his connection to his body and leave him trapped in a dead corporation; he could pull him out and put him in a bottle and block him from seeking reincorporation in Hell; he could tear him apart from the inside out so this slow dying was happening simultaneously in two planes; he could destroy whatever parts of Crowley he wanted; he could sever his wings. He could violate him in any number of ways that Crowley threw back in his face with a defiant addendum: _Is this foolish?_

Aziraphale withdrew slightly, not wanting to make Crowley feel like he was being forced into anything. Crowley closed his eyes, wheezing.

_And yet,_ Aziraphale’s ethereal essence echoed in his mind, y _ou’re thinking about it, because you hate Hell. Why?_

Crowley bitterly shoved through their mental connection a torrent of images of what Hell was like: suffering and fire and torture and all manner of horrible things everyone expected him to like. Other demons withholding his new corporation from him until he did something unsavoury for them. Other demons sensing his desperation to get out no matter how he tried to hide it, of _seeing_ who he really was and not approving, of being known and hated and taunted with the possibility that he might not get a new body at all and would be reassigned to do paperwork in the Eighth Circle. Demons with real authority over him threatening that if he didn’t do the vile things _they_ thought he should be doing up on Earth, they would keep him trapped. Never allowed back up to Earth to see the green grass and the beautiful black starry sky under the apple tree and taste alcohol with that insufferable, _beautiful_ angel—

Aziraphale recoiled in surprise, but did not let go.

Crowley paled, absolutely mortified, positive Aziraphale would blast him to dust on the spot after letting _that_ slip.  He squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation, but all he felt was Aziraphale’s hand gently running through his hair.  He opened his eyes to see Aziraphale’s kind face had broken into a smile.   
  
“You asked _Why does it have to be this way?_ It doesn’t. But it’ll never change unless someone takes the first step.” Aziraphale held out his hand. “You said I seem like a decent guy. Won’t you let me try to help you?”

Wracked with shudders, thinking he might be making either a decision he would greatly regret (or a decision for which he’d be grateful for years to come), Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and let his aural defences slide down. He nodded gravely.

“All right,” said Aziraphale, kneeling and getting into position to work. He placed a warm hand on Crowley’s chest. “Now, I’m not one-hundred percent certain this will work. I’ve never healed a demon before. But I’ll try my best. Let me know if something doesn’t feel right.”

A wave of apprehension rolled over Crowley. It took all his willpower not to recoil as Aziraphale reached out, brushing Crowley’s aura and stroking the raw wounds in his true form.

“Ready?” said Aziraphale, and a tendril of ethereal essence snaked its way into him and rested around his demonic core, which trembled at the touch. “One, two…”

Crowley’s grip on Aziraphale’s hand tightened as he felt something like divine fire licking through him, almost overwhelming him.   
  
Aziraphale seemed to notice his distress and eased up a little, pouring warm and gentle liquid light on the wounds.

Crowley let out a shaky breath, overtaken with relief.

“Is that better?” said Aziraphale, concern apparent on his face.

Crowley raised a hand to wipe sweat away from his face, letting out a nervous chuckle as the pressure in his chest finally lifted and the blood drained from his lungs under Aziraphale’s deft motions. “Yeah. Oh…”

Crowley let out a moan. Aziraphale’s hands worked over his chest in light circles, causing his flesh to writhe and draw itself back together.

Crowley’s head was a little clearer now, so he tried to think of a snarky one-liner to recover some sense of pride, but nothing came to him. He was just so damn caught up in how _good_ the miracle-working he was getting felt. It was like Aziraphale was massaging his very soul.

In sharp contrast to the defensiveness he’d felt earlier, he was actually quite disappointed to feel Aziraphale’s healing aura withdraw. He opened his eyes and looked the angel up and down. “Why’d you stop?”

“Er,” said Aziraphale, fidgeting with a branch on the ground. “That’s enough to keep you alive. You won’t die now. So I’ve kept you from Hell.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. He heaved himself upright and leaned against the rock wall behind him, a root from the apple tree sticking out of the dirt wall behind him poking his back slightly. “Thanks.”

Aziraphale smiled lightly.

Crowley was disappointed to still feel a slight pain when he inhaled. “You could…”

Aziraphale looked up sharply. “What?”

“You could…I don't know, you could finish if you wanted to.”

Aziraphale’s face lit up, and his aura snaked back out.

Crowley welcomed him with no hesitation this time. He bathed in the angelic aura like a snake basking in the sunlight. The now less-than-mortal wounds left in his corporation quickly knit themselves together.

Aziraphale withdrew gradually this time, and the two of them felt like they were glowing, having broken a boundary no angel or demon had ever dared approach before.

“Thank you,” said Crowley. He reached down and touched his chest, which was now whole again.

“Don’t mention it,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley let his fingers wander over to the angel’s hand, trying to decide whether or not he should hold it.

“No, really, don’t mention it,” said Aziraphale. “I could get in big trouble, especially if Gabriel’s guard had orders to kill you. Er…”

Crowley nodded grimly, yanked back into the seriousness of the situation by the tone in the angel’s voice. He nudged one of the tankards of beer. “So…that for me?”

Aziraphale slid it over to him. “Yes… I thought, well…You wanted to get drinks earlier and failed to make that appointment. I thought we could make-up the date here, under this tree.”

Crowley took a swig of beer. It was the good stuff. “Thanks.”

“You can buy next time. Cheers.”

They clinked their glasses together.

“So,” said Aziraphale, staring at the foam in his tankard. “There was something you had wanted to talk about. Perhaps now you’ll feel comfortable sharing it?”

Crowley gazed into his beer. “Oh, yes. Well, you know, I’ve been thinking… This wouldn’t have happened if I’d known Gabriel was in town. I was only here for one mission, and this whole situation could have been avoided if someone else had been in town to carry it out for me.”

Aziraphale cocked his head. “Surely you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

“You had a mission to do three towns over, didn’t you? Yet they made you run all the way over here to meet Gabriel, which hardly gives you enough time to meet your deadline. Yet _I_ was in that same town, bored out of my skull. Seems like if we just…talked it over a bit, we could pick up each other’s slack. We’d get a lot more done in a much more efficient way, and we could stay out of the way of other angels and demons.”

Aziraphale looked down into his cup, thinking of an unpleasant run-in he’d had with a demon not as approachable as Crowley on his last mission. “That sounds…reasonable. You’re proposing an Arrangement of some sort?”

“That,” said Crowley, raising his glass, “is precisely what I am proposing. A formal business relationship between you and me. One based on mutual respect and trust.”

Aziraphale looked into his honey-golden eyes, as full of hope and positivity as the smile reaching them, and once again clinked their glasses together. “I’ll drink to that.”


End file.
